


Endurance

by determamfidd



Series: Sansûkh: The Appendices [15]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Deleted Scene, F/M, Gen, Grief, Homesickness, Self-Image, amputation and discussion of prosthetics, and has no qualms about sassing his Maker, dain is a clever cheeky old thing, dain2k15, it's sansukh so you know the character death tag means exactly squat :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Expanded scene from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528/chapters/8245537">Chapter Thirty-Six of Sansukh</a>)</p><p>  <em>“You know what my next question is gonna be, don’t you.”</em></p><p>  <em>“Aye. And you know my answer.”</em></p><p> ...</p><p>At the venerable age of two-hundred and fifty-two, Dáin Ironfoot, King of Erebor and Lord of the Iron Hills, finally falls in battle, spilling out his life to protect his friend and his people as always. </p><p>This is what happened to him after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endurance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kailthia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/gifts).



> For dain2k15, and the amazing [kailthia](kailthia.tumblr.com), who has been sending me the most adorable headcanons (and I will publish them all, _because they are adoribubble_ ) to cheer me up. Thank you, K. You are a total gem.

It was warm.

That was his first impression: of warmth, huge and blanketing and comforting. Dáin groaned and nearly melted into the stone beneath his bare back. Warmth. It felt so good after all those decades struggling against the chilly winds of Erebor. His toes had always felt cold – and not the metal ones, either.

Hang on – stone? Underneath his _bare back?_

Dáin tried to rouse himself, to gather his limbs underneath him and get to his hands and knees, at the very least. But they did not seem to be under his control.

It was very dark. Completely dark, in fact. He tried blinking, and found it made no difference at all.

“Hullo?” he tried, and his voice echoed away into nothingness.

_Hullo – ullo – ullo – lo – lo_

Well, that was just bloody stupendous, that was.

He managed to lift a hand to his face, and rubbed at his eyes with fumbling, clumsy fingers. No change. Damn, it was darker than the inside of a pig.

That echo hadn’t gone on forever, and so this was presumably a room. A fairly large room. A nice warm one.

But some bugger had made off with his clothes.

Right. First things first.

Dáin bent all his concentration on the muscles in his upper legs, willing them to respond. They twitched a little at first, spasming as though he had just sprinted a mile in full armour. Then they began to sluggishly roll from side to side. The movement gave him a new piece of information also: whoever it was had nicked his clothes had also stolen his ironfoot.

“Lovely,” he murmured, and then turned his attention onto his arms. “Come on, your turn. Wakey wakey.”

He couldn’t tell how long it was that he lay there like a stranded turtle, rocking his legs and arms back and forth. But eventually he was confident enough in them to try to roll over onto his belly.

“Ooof!”

“Gently there, my son,” came a great voice out of the nothingness. It seemed to surround him entirely, as enveloping as the blackness.

“Who’s there!” he barked, and gathered himself as best as he could. Naked, with one leg, and utterly sightless in the dark he might be, but Dáin Ironfoot would not go down without one hell of a fight. He pushed up onto trembling arms, and tried to get his knees under him. “Come out then, if you think you’re hard enough!”

The voice, deep and cavernous and thunderously soft, chuckled.

“See if you’ll be laughing when I oof,” Dáin broke off as one of his arms wobbled right out from beneath him, sending him crashing flat on his chest straight back onto the stone floor.

He lay there for a beat, and then said, “all right, that was a bit funny, I’ll grant.”

“You would do well to wait until your strength returns,” said the voice, and it shook the air around him, though it was so very quiet. It seemed to roll straight through his flesh. “You are safe here, Dáin.”

“An’ where’s _here,_ if you don’t mind me asking, eh?” Dáin ignored the advice and began to push himself up again. His arms wobbled like river reeds, but they held just long enough for him to achieve a kneeling position. “Ain’t Erebor. Too warm. Also, you’re not Dís…”

He froze. His breath seemed stuck.

_Dís._

The wintery battle-ground. Dâgalûr. His dear friend Brand, cast aside like a wrung-out rag. The lady Selga, so desperate and afraid and brave. The warg. His broken body, wracked with agony, failing him inch by inch, wounded and riddled with warg-poison.

Dís. His dear cousin Dís, holding his hand…

“The memory returns,” the voice said, soft and sad.

Dáin swallowed, and despite the warmth of the room, there were cold icicles sliding down his back. “You know what my next question is gonna be, don’t you.”

The great kindly voice sighed, like a mountain breeze rustling the trees. “Aye. And you know my answer.”

Of course. Of course.

Letting his hands fall open on his thighs, Dáin bent his head.

“Well,” he said eventually. “At least it’s warm.”

“I am sorry, my child. You have endured so much.”

Dáin gave a rusty laugh. “Aye, well, you made me that way, didn’t you?”

“I did.” The words were gentle still, but there was a pride and a power in them that made Dáin’s skin shiver and prickle. “That I did.”

“Even gave me my dark-name, as though to make doubly sure.” Dáin snorted, and then brought one clumsy hand up to wipe at his nose. “Well, my enduring days are done, I suppose. That’s me sorted. I’ll have to get a new Kherumel. Do you think you could do the honours?”

“Calm yourself, my son. You are safe now, you need not speak from bitterness and pain. And endurance is not only of benefit to the living. You will find that it is also of use here, in this timeless place.”

“And does this timeless place come with lights?” Dáin muttered into his beard, and shook his head angrily. “Can’t see a damned thing.”

“Your eyes will heal. They are new, and as with all newborn things, they need time.”

“Just lovely.” Dáin swiped at his nose again, and then steeled his aching heart. “An’ I guess that’s what I have now. Time. All this time, and nowhere to go fishing.”

“Allow yourself to grieve, Dáin. You have soldiered on in the face of such loss and never faltered. You have shouldered the responsibility time and again, you have done your duty by your loved ones. You need not carry that weight any more: you may set it down here.”

“No I can’t,” he said bluntly, and then his fists balled upon his knees. “No I can’t, and you know it. I’ve been looking after ‘em for so long, I don’t know what to do now! I’m dead, an’ that’s that – but what happens to _them_? Did I achieve anything by throwing my life away like that? Erebor’s still under siege, an’ now my poor lad has to be a King. I wouldn’t wish that job on my worst enemy, let alone someone I love!”

“The siege continues, yes.” The voice thundered through him, and Dáin flinched against it. “But your death was not needless, King of Erebor. You stopped the rush upon the Gates that may have succeeded if it were not for your charge. You slew the last scion of a deadly blood-feud and left the Orcs leaderless. They will have no direction now, no unity. Too, you gave your sappers the distraction they needed to save those in the tunnels. You went to Dale’s aid, and as a result the townsfolk are safe in the Mountain. And you protected your friend’s body.”

Dáin stared gloomily into the blackness. “Guess that’s true.”

There was a pause, and then the voice said, rather shrewdly, “but you do not feel it was enough.”

“Reading my mind now. It’s almost like you’re my Maker or something,” Dáin snapped, and regretted it immediately. He winced and bowed his head again. “Ach. Sorry.”

“Be easy, child,” Mahal said, and there was a smile in the tremendous voice that made the room warm and bright again. “I will not be wroth with you for a little pertness.”

“Well, good – or you’d be mightily peeved with me a lot o’ the time, to be frank.” The words came on automatic, but Dáin’s heart wasn’t in them. It was growing heavier and heavier even as he spoke, aching like a Warg-bite in the centre of his chest.

“Never, my son,” Mahal said softly. “Never.”

“I can’t not worry,” Dáin burst out, and he rubbed at his eyes again. “What happens to ‘em now? I need to know, I _need_ to, or I’ll go stark-staring bonkers…”

“Every Dwarf in these Halls can watch the living beyond the mists and the sundering seas,” Mahal said. A massive, gnarled hand came to rest upon Dáin’s head, and he shuddered with awe and sadness and shock. This hand…! _This hand had made the world._ “You will be able to see them again. You will know what they do.”

With daring that surprised even _him,_ Dáin grabbed at the enormous thumb and gripped it in his hand. “Do you swear?” he said desperately, and his heavy heart throbbed and creaked deep inside his chest. “Do you?”

“Khathuzhâl.” Mahal’s voice was sorrowfully amused. “I swear it.”

The sound of his Dark-name in that voice made Dáin reel in wonderment and awe and grief. There was such profound pride and love in it. Mahal… loved him, loved his children. Loved them enough to name them, just as the old stories told.

Surely he could not abandon Dáin now.

“Ta muchly,” he croaked, and released that huge thumb as though it were hot coals. “Um. Sorry about that as well.”

“Indeed, that is rather close to crossing the boundaries of pertness. It borders upon taking liberties, inúdoy.”

“That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.” Dáin squinted up into the darkness, willing his useless eyes to work. “So I can see them? Once these damned things work, I’m guessing?”

“You can. But they will not see you.”

“I assumed that. Else there’d be a lot more stories about ghosts and whatnot in the world, wouldn’t there?” Dáin tried to make out _anything_ in the warm, close blackness, and failed entirely. “Ah, this is pointless.”

Mahal gently ran his hand over Dáin’s mad shock of hair, and he quaked once more at the touch. “Patience has always been your strong suit. Use some of it now, and wait to heal in your own good time.”

Letting out an explosive breath, Dáin slumped back. “Time.”

“Aye.” Mahal’s presence moved further away, the overwhelming pressure of his nearness easing somewhat. “Breathe now. Rest. Restore yourself.”

Dáin’s eyebrow shot up. “You say that, and yet I note that I’m a little on the incomplete side.”

A rumbling chuckle filled the air.

“Not that any part o’ me is lacking in any area, mind.” Dáin scratched at his beard, and through his sorrow he noticed that his braids were neatly woven, and his tusks stood jauntily in his moustache just as proudly as if his own hands had put them there. “You do very nice work, thank you. I’ve had many compliments about it.”

“Dáin, ask what it is you wish to ask.”

“Straight to the point, I like that.” Dáin squinted into the crushing darkness. “Can I have my ironfoot back? I know it’s probably stuck fast to the grass before Erebor an’ covered in ice, but I’m sort of attached to the thing by now.”

Mahal hummed thoughtfully. “Your iron peg cannot be brought from the lands of the living to join you here, my son. It is not possible, not unless an Elf might be persuaded to bring it over the sea.”

Both eyebrows shot up. “So, that’s a definite no then.”

“It would not be likely.” Mahal was silent for a heartbeat or two, and then he said, “I notice you do not ask for your leg to be restored.”

Dáin bristled. “Yes, I did. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Dáin.”

Thrusting his jaw out, Dáin folded his arms. “Right, so you heard me then. _That’s_ my leg, an’ I want it.”

“You do not wish for your flesh to be given back to you.” Mahal’s hand curled under his chin and lifted it, like an adult would do to a small sad child. Dáin stared sightlessly before him, frozen with awe and dread at the feel of those work-rough fingers on his face. “You do not need to hide from me, Dáin. You cannot.”

“Force o’ habit,” he croaked.

“Aye, I know.” Mahal’s soft voice was full of sympathy. “You have lent your strength for so long. You have been the steady rock upon which a new foundation was built. It is more than habit for you. But tell me why you do not wish for a foot to match the other.”

Dáin hesitated, and then he said, “Ironfoot. Dáin Ironfoot. That’s my name.”

“It is.”

“Ever since I were wee. Dáin Ironfoot. Now, some might say I could take it from our soldiers being shod with iron-capped boots, but with me it was something. More.”

“You would change nothing?”

“I’d like to be able to see,” Dáin said, and shrugged. “Otherwise, nah. I’m good as I am, thanking you very much. Dáin Ironfoot I lived, and Dáin Ironfoot I’ll be now I am dead.”

“As adamant as the rest of your family, I see.” Mahal _definitely_ sounded amused. “Nothing?”

“Nope. Well,” Dáin wrinkled his nose. “Can you stop the bloody thing from rubbing after a few hours? That’d be grand.”

“I can do better than that for you, King Under the Mountain.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dáin snapped, and then winced again. Curse it, his tongue seemed freer here than it had been in eighty long years. “I mean.”

“Shhh, peace now. It is a hard thing to adjust to, child.” Mahal’s voice moved closer, and the silent thunder in the air bore down upon Dáin’s bare skin like a great stone. “You have been cut adrift from your many burdens at last, and you reach for their tattered strings to keep you from drowning. I know.”

“Glad one of us does,” Dáin said, and his sadness welled up in his breast again until it felt like he might choke upon it.

“You can rest now,” Mahal repeated. “Rest. Restore yourself.”

“Sounds dull.” Dáin’s mouth pressed flat. “So this is what they mean by retirement.”

Mahal’s hand landed on his shoulder in silent support, and Dáin thought of red-rock gullies and bright little creeks and towering cliffs that shouldered into the sky; of a landscape the colour of blood and the aching cloudless blue above it; of the lonely scream of the hunting eagle and the whistle of the wind; of rainbows caught in the spray of thundering waterfalls and the still, quiet pools beyond, glassy as a mirror.

“Always thought I’d go home,” he said in barely a whisper.

Mahal was still for a moment longer, and then he said, “Stand, Lord of the Iron Hills.”

Dáin blinked, and then abruptly he was standing. The pressure beneath his left knee was cool and firm, and he leaned into it experimentally. “Ooooh. That’s nice.”

“I am glad you approve.”

Dáin huffed and stamped the new foot a few times. “Glory be, it’s as quiet as a mouse! No more thumping like a hammer, excellent. And the right length and all…”

“Naturally.”

Mahal’s voice was modest, but there was an undercurrent of sadness beneath the pride. “You’re not sure what you wanted for me, eh?” Dáin peered up into the nothingness, his lip quirking. “Well, you and I both.”

“I made you sharp enough to cut,” Mahal muttered in his voice of rolling thunder. Dáin grinned in vindication, before a sudden thought made him draw up short.

“My family,” he said, and stopped. The words tangled upon his tongue.

“Aye.”

“Do they live? Did my son escape the tunnels?”

“He did. He has brought them safe into the Mountain.” Mahal’s presence seemed to be growing fainter. “He knows you are dead.”

Dáin’s useless eyes brimmed with sudden tears, and he brought up his clumsy hands to rub them away. “And Thira?”

“As well.”

“Damn.” Dáin pressed his chin hard against his chest, and tried to find his breath. It was stuck fast somewhere under his heavy heart, and he couldn’t reach for it. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Peace now,” Mahal said gently. “Calm yourself. You are not alone here.”

Dáin could not hear him, lost in a bramble of pain. His ribcage felt too small, his throat too tight. His iron beauty, his brave lad, gone from him forever.

“Dáin. Dáin.”

He would never hold his sweet quiet clever love again, he could not see his magnificent boy grow into his own legend…

“Khathuzhâl.”

Dáin looked up.

“You will see them again, in their time. In the meanwhile, here there are many who have waited long years to greet you in yours. Will you see them?”

_Will you rest at long last, Ironfoot the Restorer?_

“Aye,” he said eventually. “Though I’m not the idle type, I warn you.”

“I need no warning there, my son.” Mahal’s voice was now nothing more than a breath in the air, or the suggestion of thunder in the distance. “I am proud of you, Dáin. Be well, Lord of the Iron Hills.”

“Oi, you wouldn’t see clear to giving me some clothes, would you?” Dáin shouted after him.

_You – you – oo – oo_

Nothing. Dead silence, once the echoes had faded.

“Not tremendously helpful,” Dáin grumbled to himself, and rubbed at his eyes again to clear them of all traces of his tears. “Well. At least it’s warm.”

In the absolute stillness, he could suddenly hear voices beyond the room. Those who had waited long years, his Maker had said. His mouth felt dry and so he licked his lips.

His parents, dead for two-hundred and twenty-odd years - would they even _know_ their son anymore? Or would he be a stranger to them? He had been a stripling youth when they were slaughtered, taken along with his foot and his childhood at the terrible battle of Azanulbizar. His grandfather, Grór… the lads, Fíli and Kíli, Frerin. Thrór. Thráin. Hrera. Frís. Fundin. Gróin. So many. So many he had missed. Long years indeed.

(and _him,_ of course. The only one who understood. The only one who had lived through such times with him, and had also staggered beneath the weight of leadership too young, far too young… and in the end, neither of them had gone home.)

Right. First things first. He took a breath, squaring his shoulders.

There was a certain someone who was owed a good bop on his noble Durin nose… and Dáin had never been one to shirk his duty.

His chin high, as naked as the day he was born, and with his left foot glittering and sparkling like a new-forged star, Dáin Ironfoot strode out to meet the rest of his life.

 

...

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> **Khuzdul**
> 
> Kherumel - name of all names (i.e. A dwarf's secret, inner name, known only to themself. Also called a 'dark-name'.)  
> Khathuzhâl - The Endurer  
> inúdoy - son
> 
> **...**  
>  **  
> **  
>  **Thank you so much for reading, and for your reviews! Every single one is so INCREDIBLY appreciated. So, please tell me what you think! Loved it, hated it, want to throw wet cabbage at me?**  
> 


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